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May 2nd, 2025

Journal Writing

May 2nd, 2025

Just Joken

By

These days, my budget’s tighter than my toga after a second helping of lasagna. And why the lasagna needed help in the first place is beyond me.

To supplement my income—which, let’s be honest, is more like an outcome—I’m offering you a new kind of contract. I tell jokes, and you pay me in a new currency I’m calling jokens. That’s right: welcome to the thrilling world of pay-per-joke. PPJ for short—also short for petite pajamas.

If you’re anything like me, your pajama bottoms are shrinking faster than your retirement account. One day they’re cozy flannel; the next, they’re auditioning for the role of high-fashion waders. Is it the dryer? Possibly. Is it because I rode the dryer like a mechanical bull while reenacting a rodeo scene from a lasagna western? We may never know.

But that’s where jokens come in—I’ve already cracked a few jokes, so by my calculations, that should cover pajama expenses. Even if they were slightly pre-worn by a banana with questionable taste in patterns.

Okay… maybe I’m not that desperate. I barely sleep anymore, anyway. I’m too stressed about bills. (And yes, by bills, I do mean the ducks I feed at the park. It’s a running joke now. Those freeloaders love artisanal bread—and they’ve already set up a Venmo account to extort me. It’s called @QuackCash, and yes, they send reminders.)

Now, I understand if jokens aren’t your jam—but it’s not a PP&J sandwich without them. And PP&J is about all I can afford—preferably with the crusts already cut off to save on operating expenses. And by operating expenses, I’m referring to coins for the dryer down at the laundromat since mine is now mysteriously broken. The machines there don’t take jokens. Believe me—I tried.

Think of this as my version of pay-per-view, only with fewer boxing matches and way more peanut butter in regrettable places.

Still not convinced? I’m offering a 30-day risk-free trial. It can’t be any riskier than bull-riding the dryer or stepping into the ring with a Banana in Pajamas after insulting plaid.

May 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

May 1st, 2025

Teal Me More: Like, Did It Burn Out My Eyes?

By

🎶 Laser glowin’, gave me contacts
🎶 Laser glowin’, now I see black

Okay, that might not be exactly how the song goes, but you don’t have to get all scientific about it. But if you do want to get all scientific, researchers recently discovered a brand-new color called olo.

What aren’t scientists discovering these days? Still waiting on a breakthrough to stop Oreos from crumbling into oblivion when dunked in milk. That’s just how the cookie crumbles, I suppose—leaving behind a chocolatey sediment at the bottom of my glass, resembling some sort of dairy delta.

They’re calling this new color olo. Which honestly sounds like something Mr. Bean would say while answering the phone: “Olo?”

With a name like olo, you’d think it’s somewhere between orange and yellow—a sunset smoothie or at least a mango hiccup. But apparently, it falls somewhere between blue and green. So… teal? Aqua? That one elusive M&M color that only shows up when you’re down to the last five in the bag?

Here’s the twist: olo can only be seen by blasting a laser directly into your eye. Totally reasonable. I can’t wait to try it myself—just as soon as my cat’s done chasing the laser pointer. Sorry, Whiskers, but Daddy’s got to give himself cataracts in the name of science.

Personally, I’m hoping Crayola jumps on board and makes an olo crayon. That way, no one will notice when I color outside the lines in my adult coloring book. It’ll blend right in with the pizza stains on my latest masterpiece—The Dalai Lama riding a stegosaurus through a field of motivational quotes.

Anyway, it’s time for dessert. I picked up a pack of the new Olo Oreos. Let’s see if they turn my milk an invisible shade of brown. You know—choc-olo milk.

Next up: finding out if I see Grease in lightning.

April 24th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 24th, 2025

Deep-Dish Meditation

By

Lately, I’ve been cultivating what I like to call a Buddha belly. Who knew enlightenment would make one so heavy? It’s worth it, though—my consciousness has been raised much like the crust of a deep-dish pizza. I’m striving toward inner peace. Or maybe it’s inner pizza. Honestly, at this point, I’ll take either—especially if it’s topped with a little Parmezen cheese. Turns out I’ve mastered meditation—mostly because I can’t move after eating anyway. I think I’ve finally found balance, despite what my bathroom scale has to say about it.

Having a physique like a spiritual icon isn’t all bad. My girlfriend still calls me Buddha-ful. Sometimes she also calls me Jenny Craig, though I’m not sure if that’s a term of endearment or a nutritional intervention. I think it’s one of her pet names—like Ryrannosaurus Rex, the Mesozoic Pizza Mower. Sure, it’s a mouthful… but so is a large stuffed crust with extra cheese.

She really does love me. I know because she recently said, “It’s because I love you that I’m saying this: maybe spend less time at the pizza parlor and more time at the park.” Thoughtful, right? Parks are great for mindfulness. And I’ve got just the spot in mind: Jurassic Park.

It sounds peaceful enough. Greenery. Wildlife. The occasional moral reckoning about man playing God. Maybe I’ll do some yoga beneath a brachiosaurus—ease into lizard pose, glide into flying pterodactyl, and finish with ankylosaurus pose, where you grab your ankles and emotionally prepare for extinction. Dino-masté.

Of course, I’m definitely not imagining having to run for my life. Unless it’s from my girlfriend… if she finds out I stopped on the way to Jurassic Park for an extra-large veggie supreme. It’s okay though, because I believe in reincarnation—every calorie I consume returns, right around my waist.

It might not be nirvana, but it’s close. And with just one more stamp on my punch card, I get a free large one-topping. A slice of pie is like a slice of heaven—for a hungry Buddhist in sweatpants.

April 19th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 19th, 2025

The BerkShire: Where There’s Always a Second Breakfast

By

Recently, I decided to invest in stock. Not the market kind—I mean stock pots. Clearly, I’m less Wall Street and more Eat Street. I’m definitely not Warren Buffett. Wanting buffet? Absolutely. Which is why I’ve started building a diversified portfolio of cookware.

You might say I’ve opened my own hedge fund—rooted firmly in The BerkShire, where there’s always a second breakfast… and sometimes a second lunch before first dessert. I like Hobbits—they appreciate buffets the way I do.

Before I became a Samwise investor, I only had saucepans. Let’s just say… it wasn’t panning out. They couldn’t handle my high-volume cooking—or my low tolerance for scraping burnt rice. But now, thanks to my trusty stock pot, I can cook big, bold batches of anything with ease. It’s like compound interest—for stew.

Since expanding my collection, I can honestly say my kitchen game has leveled up. Before, I didn’t have much potluck. My grilled cheese sandwiches were getting so scorched, my stockbroker started making margin calls. I told him, “Wrong call—I only stock butter, not margarine.”

I keep butter on hand for one reason only: in case the Ring of Power gets stuck on my finger. That way, I can slip it off—after slipping into the realm of the unseen. Which, honestly, is exactly what I had to do after accidentally serving him a Mount Doom Melt instead of grilled cheese. It started whispering his name… and told him to buy shares that immediately plunged.

There have been times I’ve had so many dishes on the stove; I worried the whole thing might crash. I didn’t want to trigger a culinary recession just because I lacked the pans for a four-course Hobbit-style breakfast. We’re talking vegetable mini quiche, Hobbit Hash with extra thyme (because time is a flat shire-cle), wild mushrooms on cheese toast, and poached pears with lingonberry syrup—because no self-respecting Hobbit skips dessert. It’s all there in Bilbo’s pie chart of pies.

Or, if you don’t trust pastry-based data visualization, ask Warren Buffett. He’s basically the Gandalf the Grey of finance—a wizard with portfolios and an uncanny ability to show up just before everything crashes. You shall not pass… on this trade.

At this point, I’d rather diversify my pantry than my portfolio. And honestly, that might be the smarter bet—because if the market does crash, stock pots might finally be recognized as precious metals. My precious…

Not that my broker would agree—he’s still mad about the sandwich.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to disappear into the realm of the unseen—I just heard my Lord of the Ringtone. Either my stockbroker’s margin calling… or it’s my girlfriend, wondering why the grocery list is written in Elven and what on Middle-earth is Fruit of the Mallorn Tree.

April 18th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 18th, 2025

Don’t Play Koi, Play Bocce

By

I decided my girlfriend and I were going to learn Bocce Ball—mostly because it sounded like the one sport I could botch… and still be good at. I mean, how hard could it be? You toss a ball and hope for the best. That’s practically my entire athletic strategy. Some say it takes years to master Bocce. I gave myself a solid ten minutes—and honestly, that might’ve been overkill.

Now, what is Bocce Ball, you ask? Think Croquet—but without the mallets. Which is probably for the best. Give me a mallet and five minutes, and I’ll be cosplaying Thor, smiting the lawn, summoning thunder, and striking fear into the heart of the wicket.

Thankfully, Bocce Ball involves gently tossing balls instead of obliterating them with your Mjölnir—Thor’s hammer, for those of you who didn’t major in Norse mythology or Saturday morning cartoons. (And yes, it took me way too long to spell “Mjölnir” correctly. I swear it looks like two croquet balls are doing squats over the O. Honestly, why not just call it something simple, like MC Hammer?)

Anyway, gameplay starts with a coin toss to determine who goes first. Or, if you’re feeling particularly diplomatic, you can challenge your opponent to a thumb war. It’s a great way to warm up your digits, establish dominance, and confuse any bystanders who thought you came to play a sport.

Once that’s settled, the first team tosses the target ball—called the pallino, or jack if you’re on a first-name basis. Or, as I like to call him, “my old pal Jack.” Jack’s the kind of friend who doesn’t judge when your Marvel hoodie doubles as a cape and you start speaking Norse Code—which, to be clear, is like Morse Code, but with more thunder and extra dots over the O.

After that, each team takes turns tossing their bocce balls, trying to land them as close as possible to the jack. Whichever team isn’t closest keeps throwing until all the balls are played. Points are scored based on how many of your balls are closer to the jack than your opponent’s closest ball. It’s basically lawn chess, but with less thinking and more tripping over your own shoelaces.

Speaking of which—my first toss sailed majestically… for about two seconds, before it hit a rogue garden hose, veered sharply to the left, and somehow ended up in our neighbor’s koi pond. The fish were not amused. One of them gave me the side-eye, and I’m pretty sure another tried to reenact Jaws.

The goal is to get your balls as close as possible to the pallino. If one actually touches it, that’s called a kiss. Cute, right? Though honestly, it feels a bit forward. Maybe take the pallino to Tony’s first—share some spaghetti, light a candle, hum a little Bella Notte. And if Tony calls you Butchy even though you’re clearly Tramp, congrats—you’ve just played Lady and the Tramp: Bocce Edition. At the very least, you’re winning Butchy Ball.

So that’s Bocce. A game of strategy, finesse, and not nearly enough spaghetti. I may not have won, but I did get a kiss—from a bocce ball, not my girlfriend. Just to clarify. And no, I’m not in love with the pallino… we’re just close. Though apparently not exclusive—because one of the koi actually leapt out of the pond in protest. I think he had a thing for the pallino too. Either that, or I ruined his nap. It’s hard to tell with koi.

I may have inadvertently created the next Aquaman villain—wrong universe, I know. But if Marvel ever needs a hero to wrestle rogue garden hoses under the psychic control of an evil koi—all while dramatically falling over patio furniture—The Lawn Avenger is ready.

My girlfriend gave me a look and said, “You kiss one bocce ball and suddenly think you’re Tramp and an Avenger? Please. You’re more like Iron-Deficient Man. Now go sleep in the doghouse—and don’t think you’re getting any spaghetti.”

Little does she know, when you’re a Tramp, the doghouse is basically an Airbnb. It even got a 5-star review from a stray cat—“Would hiss again.” Or at least I think that’s what he said. My Norse Code isn’t the greatest. I think it might’ve been one of the ThunderCats.

And just like that, the only spaghetti in my future was emotional. And that kind of spaghetti? It’s as messy as it gets. Just ask the koi. Or my girlfriend.

Ghost Notes

Poetry Writing

Ghost Notes

By

In the corner, it lingers—a relic of the past,
Where spectral notes once waltzed and swirled,
Each chord a breath of heaven’s craft,
Shaped by hands that stitched love into sound.

Now it slumbers beneath a veil of dust,
A monument to echoes in a fractured world.
It once sang Debussy, Rachmaninoff—
Now mourned by silence, slowly unfurled.

Its voice, hushed by the passage of time,
A quiet witness to fading flames—
Of art grown ghostly, slipping away,
Its sorrow sealed within the frame.

The strings lie still, their shimmer gone,
A whisper of what we’ve become—
A final note for phantoms alone,
In this cold and silent auditorium.

April 8th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 8th, 2025

If You Don’t Gnocchi by Now

By

The other night, I was hunting for a dinner I hadn’t made before when I stumbled upon a recipe for a Gnocchi and Spinach Bake. And I thought to myself: gnocchi-dokey, you’ve got this. Because why use those two Olive Garden gift cards we got for Christmas when I could make Olive Garden jealous instead? Sorry, Olive Garden—olive-goo but not tonight.

I mean, who needs to be waited on when you can wait in line at the grocery store and wait the inestimable time it takes to bake a Gnocchi and Spinach Bake? Yes, inestimable. Fancy words are a requisite when you’re making fancy Italian food. And I’m talking Friuli-Venezia Giulia fancy—the kind of fancy where your pasta might have a trust fund.

To set the mood, I queued up my romantic cooking playlist. Things really started to simmer when Simply Red’s “If You Don’t Gnocchi by Now” came on. I stirred the sauce with feeling.

Now, I only had frozen spinach, so I did what any culinary optimist would do—I blanched it. What emerged from the pot, however, was Swamp Thing, who promptly lectured me about proper recycling practices and snapped my stirring spoon in half for being made of unsustainable wood. That’s the last time I mess with frozen spinach—it has strong opinions.

For the cream sauce, I used cashew milk. It turned out so rich I’m pretty sure it came from a cash cow rather than a cashew cow. Honestly, it was less of a béchamel and more of a bank transfer. I topped the whole thing with parmesan, almond slivers, and possibly a few splinters from the fallen wooden spoon. RIP, Stir McStickface.

I served a Caesar salad to start—thankfully appropriate now that it’s April and not the Ides of March. One assassination (of my spoon) per dinner is quite enough.

In the end, the bake was creamy, the salad was crisp, and Swamp Thing even stayed for dessert. He brought tiramisu, apologized for the spoon, and gave me a reusable bamboo spatula as a peace offering. Honestly? We gnocchi’d it out of the park. And as Simply Red would say—if you don’t gnocchi by now, you will never, never, never gnocchi… oooohhh.

April 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

April 1st, 2025

Putt-ing Up with Easter

By

My girlfriend and I went to an adult Easter egg hunt—kind of like an adult coloring book, but without the need for a smock. So why I wore one is anybody’s guess. Maybe I thought it was an egg-cellent opportunity to debut my latest avant-garde look: Postmodern Jackson Pollock Chic. Boy, did people smock me for that fashion choice. I always say, you can never be too careful. You never know when you might have some egg on your face — you know, in the “made a fool of yourself” kind of way. Although, considering I was the one wearing a smock to an Easter egg hunt, I might’ve beaten the eggs to it. And it’s not like a smock does much to protect your face anyway.

The Easter egg hunt took place on a golf course. I’ve heard of Cadbury, but never Caddy-bury Creme Eggs. I guess it makes sense to have an Easter egg hunt on a golf course, considering there’s always plenty of “birdies” there. Unfortunately, one of those birdies wasn’t satisfied with the golf-themed pun. When I reached for what I thought was a rogue pastel egg, it pecked at me like I’d just insulted its mother. Mulligan, please? And maybe the witness protection program.

My girlfriend’s pretty good at finding the Easter basket I hide for her, so I knew we had it in the bag… or basket. But just to ensure we had the egg-vantage, I briefly considered swiping a golf cart. I mean, what better way to zoom past the competition? But then I worried the groundskeeper might get teed off and chase after us. And I’ve seen how those movie golf cart chases end — spoiler: it never ends well. It’s not like I’m Hoppy Gilmore, though I suppose I could try to putt-putt past my problems. But my short game’s more ‘hopeless’ than hoppy.

We still managed to find a decent number of eggs, though I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. When I cracked them open, I found only candy. Sure, Tootsie Rolls are great, but I was really hoping for actual hard-boiled eggs. Have you seen the price of eggs lately? Forget golden eggs — I would’ve considered a carton of Grade A’s the real jackpot. So much for my dreams of an egg salad sandwich — all I got were plastic eggs in a sand trap. The whole evening wasn’t a waste though. After the hunt, the clubhouse threw a real par-ty complete with pizza. They even had a live band, and when they launched into the Smockarena, you better believe I started to bogey. Suddenly, nobody questioned my smock. Turns out, a smock is the perfect attire for busting out nostalgic ’90s dance moves. It was practically a smock hop. I may look like a putz, but my girlfriend should just be glad I didn’t commit to my original costume idea: Nabbit from Mario. If I had, that golf cart chase would’ve been a whole different game — and not one I’d win without a lightning bolt.

March 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

March 22nd, 2025

Thai Hard with a Vengeance

By

I had a craving for Thai food, and instead of ordering in like a sane adult, I decided to Thai Hard—with a Vengeance. I was racing against a ticking bomb in the kitchen, seconds from exploding. Okay, maybe it was just the oven timer—but if I didn’t curry up, I was pretty sure it was going to start raining snow peas like flaming shrapnel.

The result? Thai green curry so fabulous it practically demanded a suit and Thai just to eat it. Instead, I attended dinner in my finest “It’s On Like Donkey Kong” t-shirt and a pair of Sesame Street fleece pajama bottoms my girlfriend gave me. Underdressed? Probably. I cooked Thai, not Hong Kong cuisine—and the Donkey Kong on my shirt looked just as confused as I was underdressed. It was off like Donkey Kong, and the curry knew it. Also, I’m fairly certain sesame oil isn’t sourced from Sesame Street. I mean, for one, a bird as large as Big Bird probably would’ve eaten all the sesame seeds needed to make it—as well as a one-ton bag of wontons.

For the appetizer, I served Thai egg drop soup—because obviously, I had to “egg drop it like it’s hot.” Pro tip: do not actually drop it. Not unless you’re into second-degree burns or ruining a perfectly good pair of Sesame Sleepers.

As a side, I paired the curry with veggie dumplings—because every dumpling deserves a second shot at love—and some spring rolls so spring-loaded, even my mattress got jealous. Although, let’s be honest, it was already feeling overlooked thanks to my pajamas. My mattress can be real Elmo-tional like that.

The meal? To Thai for. The curry, simmered in coconut milk and green chilies, was so rich it could’ve made takeout cry—or just my mattress. I almost considered quitting my job and becoming a curry courier. Of course, my first delivery would’ve been to Sesame Street—if they hadn’t already invited themselves to dinner.

Grover claimed he was just doing “quality control,” which mostly involved holding a clipboard and sampling things with dramatic flair. Ernie brought chopsticks but used a rubber ducky as a spoon, and Bert kept stressing about how much he was supposed to tip me—and why we weren’t having food from Hong Kong instead. By the time they were done, there wasn’t much left to share—just one sad dumpling, which Oscar the Grouch snagged, then immediately complained about. Still down in the dumps, as always.

Oh, and the fortune cookies? Let’s just say they met an unfortunate end at the hands of a certain dark blue menace. He claims he was looking for something to read. I should’ve known better. Next time, I’m locking dessert in the cookie jar—with a phadlock. And maybe a warning label: Not for Cookie Monsters.

I swear he left crumbs shaped like alphabets on the floor. I’m still finding C’s in the rug. And as difficult as it’s been to Swiffer the carpet, at least the oven didn’t explode and make an even bigger mess. Though honestly, that might’ve been the only thing scary enough to keep Cookie Monster away.

I never got to read my fortune. But I imagine it would’ve gone something like:
“This fortune is brought to you by the letter ‘X.’ (You know, like that dumpling who ghosted me.) And your lucky numbers are: 1… ah, ah, ah.”

It was a meal to remember, pajamas and all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to explain to my mattress why it wasn’t invited.

March 19th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 19th, 2025

The Wizard of Ounces

By

I have athlete’s foot, which is weird considering I’m not an athlete. The closest I’ve come to a marathon is a TV marathon. Unless, of course, you count channel surfing as a sport. I bring a whole new meaning to the surfer phrase “Totally tubular, dude!” Unfortunately, while channel surfing, I still manage to wipe out—by which I mean I fall asleep mid-show and take an unscheduled hour-long nap on the couch.

Speaking of couches, I’m basically a couch potato—no, scratch that—a fully loaded couch potato, stuffed with cheese, sour cream, and regret. And after dinner? I level up to a couch cake, because at that point, I’m just layers of laziness and frosting.

At this point, I should probably exercise more. Even switching channels feels like a workout. Some people do circuit training—I do remote control calisthenics. Maybe I don’t even need exercise—maybe I need an exorcist, because I think I’m turning into The Blob.

Exercise and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. Not like the friendship I have with Fat Albert. We go way back—back to the buffet line, again and again. “Hey, hey, hey! They put out a bowl of Jell-O!” Hopefully, it’s just gelatin and not my cousin Blobert. He’s too much fun to be dessert. I always say, “For a good slime, call Blobert.”

Anyway, I decided to fight back against my athlete’s foot with some Tinactin. It’s tough acting, but maybe a little too tough. I’m half convinced spraying it on my feet is going to turn me into the Tin Man. Next thing you know, I’ll be rusting in place, waiting for some kid to oil my joints just so I can reach the remote. Just what I need—another reason to not be able to move. That can’t be good for my heart. If I even have a heart. I’ll have to ask the Wizard about that, though he’ll probably just give me a heart-shaped alarm clock—useful only for waking me from my midafternoon wipeout. At this rate, hitting snooze will feel like triple bypass surgery.

Maybe I need a different kind of wise master. Not Yoda, but the StairMaster. (Though I’d rather lift an X-wing out of a swamp than climb stairs.) It’s not my fault I got this out of shape—my stomach doubles as a stove and being made of metal definitely adds a few extra pounds. What started as a simple case of athlete’s foot has somehow spiraled into an existential crisis.

But hey, maybe this is my chance to become an athlete after all! Maybe I’ll even make it to the Olympics. I’d make a great bobsledder—though, let’s be honest, if this Tinactin keeps working too well, I won’t just be racing in the sled—I’ll become the sled. Or, more accurately, the blobsled. Maybe I could even come close to winning a medal like those guys in Cool Runnings. One thing’s for sure—my feet would definitely feel cool running now.